by Fredrik Nath
Pierre came in then.
‘Well, it seems there are plenty of wandering German patrols in this area. We have been luckier than I had hoped. We may get a clear run to the border north of Geneve, rather than south if our luck holds.’
‘I wish I had your faith, Pierre,’ Auguste said.
‘If you had my faith you would be Jewish not Catholic.’
‘Very funny. Are you never serious?’
‘No. Seriousness makes me cry. I don’t blubber in front of the goyim. So I laugh a lot.’
They ate and went outside to examine their gear. They knew they might have to abandon the car at any time if they were spotted.
‘You’re sure the boat will be there?’ Auguste said.
‘Yes. We can drop Odette and Zara at the bridge near Le Crèt. We head north from there along the Rhone for about a mile before the next bridge. It should be there, hidden in the trees.’
‘You know the way?’
‘I’ve heard it described. The thing about the Maquis is you can trust them. We fight together and we die together. It is a close bond. Many are young men who escaped being sent to Germany to their work camps, others are like me, yellow star men. Some are communists. No one cares and we are all equal.’
‘You are going back?’
‘No, my friend. I will never go back to that place. The people didn’t protect me. They never lifted a finger. Only the Maquis.’
‘You won’t miss it?’
‘Me? No. I will make a new life. There are Jews everywhere. We stick together. Anyway, it was Murielle’s memory keeping me there. I miss her even now.’
‘Naturally, my friend.’
They went through their provisions and gear in silence, each with his own thoughts. Auguste began to hope they would drive all the way to the border. But was the border safe? He had never been there and he knew nothing of the river where Pierre said the boat lay hidden. He realised he needed Pierre now. It was as if throughout his childhood and adolescence he had needed this man. Now that dependence escalated. He relied on his friend for his life and for that of his family. If anything happened to Pierre, there would be no border, no boat and no escape. The tension of that thought held him like a stanchion. His back ached, yet all he wanted then was to be on the road, to face what was to come and fight for the chance of deliverance for Zara, for Odette.
When dusk fell, they set off once more on the road to Le Crot. They hoped they would be able to make their way south-east afterwards, and head towards the border.
At the small town of Blanzy, they saw another roadblock, more by luck than design and so had to turn once more to the north, passing through Montsauche. By three in the morning, they stopped in Dun-Les-Places, a small village in Burgundy, far off their course. It became clear they would not reach the Rhone during this night.
Chapter 28
1
The village of Dun-Les-Places was no more than a crossroad with a group of houses stretching in each direction. Close to the centre they had built a church. It rose fifty feet into the air above the road. A small railing-protected churchyard separated it from the road and the spire looked to Auguste like a huge concrete pillar, reaching up to the sky. The wooden doors stood open even at this hour and he stopped outside, looking into the church. He could see candlelight and the chancel looked well lit, warm and welcoming. Three or four people emerged and he wondered if he had missed a Saint’s day with a midnight vigil. He wracked his brain for the date but now he came to think of it, he had no idea whether it was still February or March. He was about to ask Pierre but felt foolish, as if the simple question would give him away, making him look stupid. He thought better of it and said nothing.
Pierre said, ‘The village priest is one of us.’
‘He’s Maquis?’ Odette said from the back.
‘Yes, non-combatant but one of us.’
‘You think he will shelter us?’
‘Yes, of course, though we might have to sleep in the church.’
Auguste said, ‘It will be a first time for you then?’
‘Hah,’ Pierre said and got out. Minutes later, he emerged from the church and when they had hidden the car, they entered the church through the front door.
The priest, Père Jean, welcomed them.
‘We have an all night vigil in honour of St Romanus of Condat. He was buried near here. You may know?’
‘No father I had not heard.’
‘Perhaps his life as a hermit in the Jura made him obscure, but the two lepers he healed came from here and so we do this on the last day of February every year. Come, you will of course, be welcome in my church.’
He had grey, thinning hair and a round smiling face. His eyes were wide, brown and sharp. Auguste thought he looked like an old, greying owl.
Père Jean showed them to a corner of the church and pulled pews together to make a sleeping place for the children. When they had settled them, Auguste and Odette prayed.
‘Do you wish to make confession?’ the priest said.
Auguste looked at him with curiosity.
‘I did, only a few days ago,’ he said.
‘But if your undertaking is dangerous it may be wise.’
Odette nudged him in the ribs. He stood then and Père Jean showed him to the confessional. Auguste went through the first stages of the ritual mechanically. He had no strong wish to comply and he kept asking himself why he was doing this.
He sat in the confessional in silence at first. The priest, no doubt used to hesitant penitents, spoke first.
‘My son, what sins do you wish to confess?’
‘Forgive me father I cannot wade through many small venial sins when greater ones weigh heavily on me. I cannot think what to say.’
‘Then begin with the worst and we will gravitate to the minor.’
His confession was slow at first. With each sentence, the story became clearer in his head. The words became easier to speak and within minutes, he felt he had told all there was to tell about Claude’s death and Brunner’s murder. He told the priest everything, the places, the circumstances, even the expression on Brunner’s face when he drew the German pistol. He left nothing out.
‘You see, Père Jean. I am so mired in mortal sin, I cannot be forgiven.’
‘What makes you say this? Have you lost your faith?’
‘No father, I have lost my soul. The Church teaches that to take another’s life knowing beforehand one is going to do it, will lead to eternal damnation.’
‘But you were an instrument of justice. God’s justice. Were you not?’
‘I thought so. I did not do it for a personal grudge. I did it because he was evil, despite anything the church may say to the contrary.’
‘Of course he was evil. All of these Nazis are evil. They commit their atrocities and their genocide in full view of the Lord God. Such things cannot go unpunished or unresisted.’
‘But the Church does not speak out against them.’
‘My son, there has been more evil perpetrated in the name of the Church than I care to think of. It is not the dogma that matters; it is what is in your heart and in your mind. Did you know when the knights went on crusades, there was always a priest to bless them when they boarded ship? He would say that it is not a sin to kill an infidel, it is the path to heaven. If it was wrong, then many went to hell unknowingly. They were good Christians too.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘My point is this, soldiers of Christ have fought evil for a thousand years, or at least what they perceived as evil. You have only done the same, perhaps not for God, but before God. It is no worse in God’s eyes than a soldier in a war.’
‘But I killed those two young soldiers too.’
‘You defended yourself and your family Auguste. I do not know you, but I understand your motives and I bless you for them. Whatever my Church’s dogma may say, you have not sinned and I will give you absolution.’
‘But you do not represent the Church in this?’
‘Of course I do, I am an ordained priest.’
‘Are you not condoning my sins?’
‘Not condoning. You care, you see. If you did not, it would be hard to absolve you. Let me give you absolution.’
Père Jean spoke the Latin ritual and for Auguste it was as if it washed over him. The words flowed and although he hungered for it to end, Auguste felt, layer by layer, his sin stripping away. Deeds, words, choices, circumstances, slipped from him. Doubt, anxiety, uncertainty were replaced by a conviction he had been right. When he emerged from the confessional it was as if he was reborn, a weight lifted and his mood elevated. All his ruminant thoughts seemed wasted now. He wondered whether the purging of his soul would make his remaining life safe.
Looking at the priest, his eyes moistened. It was involuntary and he heard Pierre’s voice in his head saying ‘of all the men I know, you are the most readily brought to tears.’ He wondered whether it came from childhood or recent times. Pierre did not understand. It was a matter of soul and conscience. How could a man be unemotional about that? It was a matter of the soul foremost, his very being, according to his beliefs.
Would his soul now rest secure in the arms of this reprieve? Forgiveness was something he believed in but he could still find no trace of it in his heart for Brunner. He remembered the look on Brunner’s face when they hanged the five Frenchmen. He pictured how the man licked his lips, the smile at the end and his wish to celebrate. Brunner had been a demon and Auguste knew the truth of it now; he had fought God’s good fight and now, absolved, he was free. He felt liberated as never before.
He took the priest’s hand and looked him in the eyes.
‘Père Jean, I am truly grateful.’
‘Bless you my son, but I am only fulfilling the role thrust upon me by God. I will carry your burden for you. Put all those troubles behind you.’
Auguste turned away and as he walked towards his wife, he thought her face shone with the love he felt for her. He felt he was now free to love her, as she deserved, without the fetters of his darkened conscience, without a tarnished soul.
Odette smiled at Auguste as she stood to approach the priest. Auguste touched her shoulder, reassuring and gentle. She smiled and approached Pére Jean. Auguste watched as she crossed herself and entered the confessional. She gave her confession and Auguste noted she prayed for half an hour afterwards. He stood looking at her from the doorway and he wondered what she could have confessed. He could not imagine her to be a sinner. He concluded love alters the way you see other’s actions and words.
A hand on his shoulder interrupted him.
‘Is your soul cleansed now, my friend?’
‘Pierre, you are such an irritating bastard.’
‘I’m no bastard. I’m a Jew,’ Pierre said, grinning from ear to ear.
They rested for the remainder of the night and Auguste slept deeply, as if the absolution from this renegade priest had taken away his burden of guilt over the killings. When he woke, he began to doubt again whether this priest could, in reality, forgive his crimes. He was certain the larger crime, the internments and arrests under his orders, could not be forgiven and he realised he had never mentioned these to anyone except Odette.
Midmorning came and went and the girls seemed rested. He walked out but there seemed nowhere to go. A hundred yards along the road, he stared back at the church. A picture came into his mind of bodies, lying haphazard in death, limbs twisted and tangled. Above a figure swung, hanged from the spire. The picture disappeared in a second and did not come again. He wondered at the vision and thought his overwrought mind played tricks on him. He said nothing but he knew he was still under pressure.
Then he heard the trucks. From where he stood, there was a good view of the northern road and upon it, he saw three military trucks approaching. The pitch of the engines rose and fell as the trucks negotiated the pitted and uneven road and they seemed to Auguste to be moving at a ponderous pace. He ran. He had to warn his family. Where could they hide in the village? If it came to a fight, he resolved they would not take him alive. But what of the children? His heart raced, he sweated and he arrived at the church steps too breathless to speak.
2
‘Auguste. What’s wrong?’
Odette came to his side, Pierre behind her.
Breathing hard, Auguste said, ‘Soldiers. Trucks. Three of them, coming this way.’
Pierre turned. He ran to the back of the church to the vestry. In a moment, Père Jean appeared signalling them to come. Odette and Auguste roused the children. Bewildered as they were, the whole group stood with the priest in front of the altar. Père Jean leaned forward and pushed. The silence gave way to a grating sound and the altar pivoted back revealing stairs to an underground cellar.
‘Quick, hurry,’ the priest said and without thinking further they descended to the damp earthlined space below ground.
In seconds, the darkness enveloped them. It felt like jumping into a dark pool and realising there would be no light, only movement. Auguste lit one of his remaining matches. It provided enough illumination to find a small oil lamp standing against the far wall. He lit the lamp and by its poor illumination, they could see they were in a hollowed out space capable of holding twenty or so people.
Auguste held the lamp aloft but there was nothing else to see.
‘Dowse the light,’ Pierre whispered, his voice conveying the urgency they all felt. August doused the lamp. They stood still and listened. August became aware of a small hand grasping his and he squatted down and picked up the child. He was uncertain at first whether it was Zara or Monique.
‘Shh,’ he whispered.
Monique whispered back, ‘Yes Uncle.’
The sibilant sounds of their voices resounded in the cellar-space and all of them realised the walls amplified every sound. They stood in silence. Monique shivered in Auguste’s arms and he held her tight.
There was a sound above them. Auguste could hear booted feet clacking on the flagstones. He felt for his gun, with his left hand still clutching Pierre’s daughter. His eyes became accustomed to the dark and he identified a chink in the otherwise perfect blackness above him, where they had descended. The ray of light blinked at him and he knew there were men walking back and forth.
In the silence, they stood waiting. Auguste sweated. He racked his brain trying to recall whether they had left any trace of their night’s sleep in the church. He trusted the priest to have checked, but in his policing experience, he had learned to check things himself. He felt his heart beating against his ribs and his breathing quicken.
Auguste found himself praying. He began with, ‘Hail Mary Mother of God...’ the line repeating itself in his head over and again. Silence reigned all around him. No one spoke and no one moved.
It seemed an age before anything happened. In reality Auguste knew it could only have been half an hour or so, but the time seemed to pass with such dreary sluggishness the little girl he was holding began wriggling and squirming. He let her go and she must have felt her way to her father for he heard the word ‘bubeleh’ whispered soft and deep. He was on the verge of panic. He wondered if at any moment, the altar would slide away and German rifles would cast a threatening silhouette against the daylight. Worse still, a grenade would be enough to finish them all for good.
He heard the grating sound of the moving altar. The gun in his hand weighed heavy. With legs apart and both hands on the pistol, he stared hard, forcing himself to see despite the bright white threatening to blind him.
No guns, no soldiers. Only Père Jean smiling down at them.
‘Come up now my children, come up. They have gone away. They came in, they looked around as they always do. What they hope to find in a church I cannot conceive. They ransacked a few houses and then they went away again. It is a minor annoyance we have to put up with from time to time. Please, come.’
Auguste hesitated. In his mind, he pictured soldiers, guns and threats forcing the priest to call them
up. His brain worked as he tried to plan how he would defend them against so many. A police officer not a soldier, he was untrained in such things. Glancing over his shoulder, Pierre seemed relieved and reassured.
The priest’s proffered hand and smiling face seemed to pacify, to beckon. They emerged into the church and saw the priest was right, no soldiers were in evidence and Auguste heaved a sigh of relief. He wondered if all the constant stress had made him paranoid, but understood it was caution not some fictitious imagining.
In the late afternoon, Père Jean brought food and they made ready to depart. A clear sky above them and a red sunset ahead, they set off south and east. Luck had brought them this far and Auguste’s imagined trek, hiking though unknown woods and forest seemed a long dream away from the realities of travelling with Pierre.
Chapter 29
1
They by-passed Autun and kept on farm tracks and small roads, hoping to go unnoticed as they travelled. Auguste concentrated on keeping the little Citroën on the road. A light sprinkling of snow lay around them. Frost began to spread icy tendrils across the tracks and paths. Dark pine forest alternated with desolate unploughed farmland. High up now, the temperature plummeted and the icy journey continued. The travelling was less easy than Auguste had imagined; the ice and frost made some of the roads slow and dangerous.
He knew German soldiers could stop them at any time. They had only to reach a checkpoint and try to flee and it would be enough. Shots would be fired, military vehicles would follow them and it would all end. The border seemed an intangible goal to him then, a holy grail to which he looked for safety and salvation. He said nothing to the others but his anxieties rose and fell almost like the undulating roads upon which he drove.
No more checkpoints barred their way and an hour before dawn, travelling down a forest track; they came to a dead-end, close to the small village of Le Crêt, a kilometre from the Bellegarde bridge. He had driven two hundred kilometres since dusk. It was here they realised the car could go no further. Whether there were reports of their escape or not, the chance of the soldiers recognising the car was a real one and neither Auguste nor Pierre felt the risk was worthwhile.